Bite Your Lip and Fake It
by ScottIsInBolivia
Summary: After a particularly horrifying event occurs, how will Evan manage. He doesn't think there's anything to manage. Will he tell the person he's closest to before he self-destructs? Hank/Evan Will turn Rated M
1. Take

Warnings: Yes, this story includes rape. The authors of this story want it to be known that it is just that: a story, nothing but pure fiction. We also want it to be known that rape is definitely NOT okay, nor is it condoned or even remotely tolerable. If you can't stomach that, then don't read this. It should also be said that this will undoubtedly be a Hank/Evan slash fic. So, if you have issues with homosexuality or incest, than this story just isn't for you, love.

Disclaimer: The authors of this story are in no way, shape, or form, receiving any profit off of it. It is purely for the entertainment, enjoyment, and pleasure of the readers.

It's two-thirty a.m when Evan Lawson stumbles through the door of the guest house shared with his older brother, and attempts to navigate around the kitchen's awkward layout. Although he never particularly enjoyed the man's company, Evan is thanking Boris now more than ever for the temporary home. As much as he loves Hank, his brother, sharing a hotel room for as long as they've been in the Hamptons would have gotten steadily irritating, and now, given the night's predicaments, embarrassing, shameful, frightening, and just too many questions asked and conversations all around.

Evan stubs his toe on the kitchen's island bar with a resounding _thwack!_ He makes a move to grip his pained nub, but upon reaching down, clenches his bottom lip between his teeth, trying his best to muffle the hissing, groan-like sound that was threatening to escape his vocal chords. It fucking _hurt_, but _no_, he did not want his older brother hearing him. Two stories or fifty – it didn't matter; if Evan even gave so much as a hint he was in distress, Hank would come running with fists swinging. And he didn't want that.

Evan thought it was ironic, really, trying to use any sort of rambled thought to distract him from the aches resounding through his body. Not even but, what, a half hour ago, and he was screaming for anyone – someone – _Hank, please! –_ to come help him. But nothing in life ever really worked out the way Evan wanted it to, so why start speculating on it now?

He has got to think, and speculate, and analyze, and interpret this whole cluster-fuck of a situation at some point. Surely, he must. Evan knows; he has (reluctantly) seen the LifeTime movies, endured the health education classes during high school. It's bound to happen at some point, right? It all goes the same, he thinks. She gets hurt. She might deny it, or she might not. Either way, it ends up eating at her from the inside out, until, at some point, she's having night terrors, and freaking out at the most random of moments, and taking three times her normal shower rate, because – fuck – they just can't quite seem to make water hot enough! And it just keeps progressing! Instead of that happy, perky, bright girl her peers knew, there is now some sort of deformed, cracked-shell of an imposter taking prisoner of her body, making her quiet, skittish, withdrawn, frightened ...victimized.

That's what's supposed to happen, right?

Someone, at some point, for some reason, questions said victim and her behavior, and then she'll spill her guts out and confide in that caring person. Soon, though, it's not just that one person – oh no. Now everyone she holds close to her heart must know, because it's their job to make her feel safe again. There's usually some more tears. Perhaps some therapy or a court trial where the victim confronts her attacker. And then the story ends; she may or not be "okay," or maybe she's adjusting just fine. Regardless, she'll move on once the credits and appropriate recognitions are rolled on the screen.

If that's the case – if that's really how it goes – then why doesn't Evan feel like any of that? That's not supposed to happen, right?

Based on LifeTime's movies and a few Law & Order episodes, Evan isn't doing any of this right. Shouldn't he be muffling screams? Isn't there supposed to be some recurring scene of the attack playing behind his eye-lids whenever he blinks? Is he, just maybe, broken? Perhaps something's not right with him. Then again, LifeTime never really cared to show males as the victims, and the sex educator – the scruffy, macho man that he was – didn't feel the need to prepare the students for this.

Does an instruction manual exist on such things? Because, if so, Evan must have fucked up somewhere at the beginning, and that means taking everything apart to rebuild. Rebuild what, though?

Evan doesn't need to cry. He doesn't feel the itch to run to the shower. True, the alcohol and sweat and general stickiness that has gathered on his body makes him want to bathe... in the morning, but not right away. When he closes his eyes, he swears he can see his pulse thumping lights behind his lids – not the _occurrence._ And, no, Jesus fuck – no! He doesn't want to confide in his brother or anyone else, for that matter.

_Definitely not,_ he decides, bracing himself for the first step of the staircase. Evan grabs the banister, abused knuckles screaming while flexing his left leg muscles, and – _Ahhh, balls, that fucking hurts_- begins his trek. Why did they – no, scratch that. Why did Boris have stairs? Wasn't he, like, loaded!

It seems like hours before he reaches the floor, huffing and wobbling and gripping onto the walls for all the support they've got. It seems even longer, though, to make it to the bathroom. He carefully – quietly – shuts the door once he's entered, flipping on the lights with a practiced and familiar swipe of the hand. Evan winces at the brutal light, shutting his eyes and allowing his body to fall forward, until his hands grip the edges of the sink's counter, and he leans almost all of his light weight on them.

He knows he's drunk. Numerous shots and way too many beers, a viscous attack, an awkward cab ride home, and he's still wasted. Evan's not sure if it's his own accidentally spilled drinks that he's smelling, or _his. _Not all that positive if it's the sweat and alcohol that's making his clothes cling to certain areas of his body, of it it's _his-_

Evan opens his eyes wide, allowing the burst of light to burn some sense into his brain through his retinas. He's woozy. His head feels like it's filled with static. He doesn't need to be thinking about what happened, because it'll only cause more questions. Besides, Evan doesn't think it's that big of a deal...

until he notices the red, and just now coloring bruises and splotches set suspiciously into his skin.

Evan catches the flick of _something_ on the reflection in the mirror, and his eyes go wide. He thinks he's going to throw up – can already feel the acidic, alcohol-based bile burning at the back of his throat.

_Are those...?_ Yes. Yes, in fact, they are, Evan concludes. There are two sets of teeth marks on his body, already beginning to clot and attempt to heal themselves. One is located at the juncture of his neck and collarbone, right in the hollow where his neck dips into his shoulder. And it's disgusting – a fucking mess. All red and pink and some twisted sort of purple meets blue and, oh, the coagulated brown.

He anchors his body weight onto one arm – his left - tentatively stretches long, thin, scraped and bleeding fingers and touches the bite. Evan whimpers. For some reason, this particular wound doesn't feel like the dog bite he got when he was eleven. It hurts so, so much more. His teeth dig that much further into his abused, bottom lip, and looks downward.

Evan can feel it, more than see it. His shirt is a little torn and bunched at just the right angle, giving him a small glimpse of the horror show that lay underneath. He moves slowly and cautiously, tugging the hem of his jeans down by _so_ much, and lifting his shirt just a _bit_, and, yes. That confirms it all.

There is another bite mark on his left side of his hip. Directly over the protruding bone and just an inch or so away from his actual side. It looks so much worse than the neck does. More vicious, maybe? As if there was a growl emitted when the teeth were relinquished. The bite is set purposely, though, between two finger indentations. The rest, Evan's assuming, are located more towards his back.

They're almost sort of interesting. How they're placed, and seemingly, with how much care went into placing them. Evan feels like some fucked up Salvador Dali painting.

A shiver that feels more like little rats crawls up his spine.

Just from that one peak of skin – those few inches underneath his shirt – Evan already knows how bad his body is marked. Bruises will go away, eventually. The aches and pains will gradually fade. But those bites – those fucking _land marks_ – will scar, because he certainly isn't going to a hospital to get stitches for them. That would require explanations.

Evan's not dumb – he's just an accountant. So he reaches over the mouth wash and hand soap and tooth brush holder, trying desperately to grab the mini first aid kit that Hank insisted on having in almost every room. It's a ridiculously hard task to accomplish. He's drunk – seeing doubles and blurred edges – and trying so, so hard to just focus on one target without knocking anything over.

Evan doesn't know how he manages it, but eventually, the tips of his fingers hit the desired target – the first aid kit – and he grabs it, slowly lifting it up and over the bathroom sink's contents. It's a small victory, but that doesn't stop the small sigh that escapes Evan's throat. And it's sort of sick, really, how elated and accomplished he feels at that very moment. Evan sighs again, this one more so from the pathetic feeling he gets after the elation and accomplishment.

He shuffles backwards until his body meets the cream colored wall, first aid kit still in hand, and begins to slide down to the floor. Slowly, gingerly – _my god!_ - carefully, Evan maneuvers his body until he meets the cold, floral patterned tiles.

It seems to take forever and two days for Evan to finish cleaning the bites. It is only when Evan finishes using the entire bottle of rubbing alcohol on the irritated skin, generously globs Neosporin onto and around the affected areas, covers it all up with two giant, square bandages, and towels up any signs of his medical treatment, that he allows himself to pause and just _breathe._ His head falls to rest against the wall supporting him with a dulled _thunk._

Evan doesn't want to deal with this anymore. It's only been a couple of hours, and he's already fucking sick of it. _I just want to sleep_, he chants in his head, until it becomes a mantra that guides his body to comply with his brain.

He uses his back to push himself off the floor on up the wall, until he is standing, the wrappers of the band-aids and empty bottle of the cleansing alcohol shoved deep into his pockets. There is a brief moment of indecision where Evan debates with himself on whether or not to take the first-aid kit with him, that is quickly subsided. It takes him a significantly shorter amount of time to set the medical box back onto the counter, then it did when taking it off.

Evan's movements are jerk-like and twitchy; his body has endured all that it was capable of for the day, and probably tomorrow, too.

Just as he pulls his arm away from the sink, Evan's fingers accidentally graze the tooth brush holder. It falls and rolls into the sink with obscenely loud _clink's _and _ding's._ He groans.

_No, _he thinks, _absolutely fucking not._ Evan's done. He's finished with this. They're simply tooth brushes. Hank will probably think that his younger, most likely intoxicated brother stumbled into the holder while in the bathroom.

Evan turns his gaze away from the sink – away from the bathroom entirely – and turns off the light before exiting the room. He sighs, forcing the muscles in his legs to contract and take him to his room, where a bed is laying, open and inviting.

There's absolutely no light in the upper floor's hallways, forcing Evan to walk along them with nothing but familiarity and his toes for protection and warning. He's thankful for the dark, really. It allows him to breathe – to settle his already fried nerves. The once apprehensive shadows now seem to shield and hide Evan, whether it be from himself, or others. Most importantly, though, Evan thanks the lack of light for blocking any sort of visuals, especially when he hears his brother's door click open, shared with a tentative call of his name.

"Hank?" Evan whispers back, afraid to use his voice any louder.

There's a pause, followed by the sound of bare feet shuffling across the carpet. "Did you just get back?" Hank asks, his voice all sleep, curious, and tired eyes. "Where are you? I don't want to run into you."

"I think I'm, like, three feet in front of you."

"When did you get back?"

"A couple of minutes ago."

"Are you drunk?"

"Very."

"Like, sick drunk?"

"I just need to sleep."

"Can you make it to your room all right? Do you need help?"

"Hank..."

"I don't want you stumbling and hurting yourself."

"I'm fine," Evan mumbles, turning his head and averting his gaze despite the dark. He's not fine. He's never been more _not_ fine in his life.

Hank seems to mull this over in his brain, checking and rechecking his brother's affirmations. It's not that he's suspicious or over-protective, really, it's more like he knows Evan doesn't tell Hank when he's not feeling right. Hank silently snorts. Trust his brother to whine and moan about a paper cut or mosquito bite, but not anything even remotely serious.

"Go lay down, Ev. I'll get you some water."

Evan's just opening his mouth with a protest when Hank takes off down the stairs. The corners of his mouth lift into a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. _I admit,_ he thinks. Yes, Evan does actually enjoy his brother's protection and worrying attitude..._sometimes._

On the small walk it takes to his bedroom, Evan wonders just what would happen if he included Hank on the details of the night. What would Hank do? Would he make him go to the hospital, or the police first? Evan's seen enough 'SVU' episodes to know that he would have to undergo and exam to gather evidence that he has more than enough of; it's all over his person, soaked into his clothes and _inside_ him. And that has Evan worried to the point of tears. He doesn't know who did this – didn't see his attacker's face or any parts of his body – or what STD's they could possibly have. Yes, a trip to the hospital for a broad spectrum test needs to occur within the week.

_It's not really all of that_, Evan concedes to himself, peeling out of the sticky jeans before throwing them into a corner, mindful of it's pocket's contents.. What has him keeping his lips sealed is due less to the legal matter and motions, and more to do with the process of getting those matters and motions started. How could he possibly begin to tell Hank, his older _brother, _the one person he cares for and has had care for him his whole life, that he was assaulted? Shit, how could he tell anyone? Not that he would tell anyone other than Hank, but the Hamptons were known by everyone for their gossip. Evan bets that the word would spread in less than a week.

He's ashamed and embarrassed. Doesn't think he could handle the pitying stares and questions and behind-the-mouth-chit-chat from strangers, let alone the person he cares most for.

Evan sighs, scrubbing his face and tired eyes with shaking hands. _Tomorrow. I will deal with all of this tomorrow._ For now, right at this moment and probably for the next twelve hours or so, all Evan wants on his mind is how incredibly soft the bed is, and that's only when he briefly awakens to switch positions.

He sinks into the Egyptian cotton sheets with a satisfying groan, muffled by the plump pillow he presses into his neck and face. Evan stretches an arm awkwardly around his body, grabbing his thick comforter and wrapping it around his body until he is cocooned within it – something he hasn't done since he was a child.

* * *

Evan's asleep and dead to the world when Hank walks into his room, glass of ice water in one hand, an empty bucket in the other. In the dead silence of the house, Hank can hear his baby brother's breath as if it were near a microphone. It's rhythmic and relaxing, all deep breaths and sigh-like exhales, coaxing his own body into some sort of half-sleep.

Hank's glad Evan never gets hangovers on liquor - beer only, for some odd reason - and just a little jealous. By the way his brother sounded, Hank could tell that he was _gone_. He was lucky to have to never suffer the repercussions of a night at the club.

He walks toward the bed, mindful of catching his toes or shins on the frame, and sets the glass down on the night stand, and the bucket within his brother's arm's reach. Turning to check and make sure his brother hasn't vomited in his sleep, his hand touches fabric. With a frown tugging at his mouth, Hank reaches out a hand, sweeping it across the space Evan's upper body would be. His frown deepens when he is met with even more blanket. Dry, unsoiled blanket, but a blanket nonetheless.

Hank is worried. It's more the brother in him, and less the doctor. His tired eyes glance to the glowing green lights of Evan's alarm clock.

_4:07 a.m._

_Evan's fine for now,_ he tries to convince himself. His brother seems to be safe and content, surrounded in the world of dreamland and blankets. He probably will be for the majority of tomorrow, too. Besides, Hank has an appointment in the morning with newest member to join the Hamptons' community.

Yes, Hank will talk to Evan tomorrow about why he is sleeping as if he needs to be shielded from a threat.

* * *

A/N:

So, how do you like it? Did you like it, or did you hate it? Feedback would be appreciated, because this is our first posted fic. :]

Anywho, this story will be a Hank/Evan slash, but it won't come up until later on in the story (not too much later, but later).

Update soon.

Candy, love, lawli-pops, and corpses,

ScottIsInBolivia.


	2. What

Warnings: Yes, this story includes rape. The authors of this story want it to be known that it is just that: a story, nothing but pure fiction. We also want it to be known that rape is definitely NOT okay, nor is it condoned or even remotely tolerable. If you can't stomach that, then don't read this. It should also be said that this will undoubtedly be a Hank/Evan slash fic. So, if you have issues with homosexuality or incest, than this story just isn't for you, love.

Disclaimer: The authors of this story are in no way, shape, or form, receiving any profit off of it. It is purely for the entertainment, enjoyment, and pleasure of the readers.

* * *

Evan is not all that positive on what wakes him up...at least, not _exactly._ It could be a multitude of things; the ache that seemed to reverberate throughout his body in sync with his heart beat; his bladder screaming to be drained; the alcohol-based bile curving up the track of his esophagus; the blinding mid-day light, that just couldn't be kept back by blinds; or even the whisper that felt more like a scream, caught just at the back of his throat before escaping.

He wants to put money on the light, but the horrendous taste just budding at the back of his tongue is saying otherwise. Even rips the blanket away from his face, now slick with the beginning of a clammy, cold sweat. Ice blue eyes going frantic with the feel of saliva filling his mouth, he searches for a trash bin or a bag – anything!

When Evan spots the bucket laying on the ground, just next to the night stand near his bed, he feels like crying and smiling and laughing and screaming and dieing, all in one go, but he can't, because as soon as the bucket is spotted, he is grabbing at it, and before he knows it, spewing into it. They're harsh, violent spasms that force Evan to expel his stomach's contents, making his abdominal muscles ache after the first push. It's the kind of vomit that one achieves only after a long night partying – all liquids, and no food. Evan's glad he didn't eat before going out – doesn't have to experience the lumps pumping up his throat...and that thought makes his stomach contract even more.

When his gut has stopped collapsing in on itself, and Evan is left half way off the bed, propped on trembling arms, and gasping for all the air his lungs can get, he actually _does _feel like dieing. Evan's never been one to vomit, especially after a night drinking. Whether it be the flu or too much of one thing, Evan has always tried his damnedest to keep his stomach contents where they should be: his stomach. And it is for this reason exactly. He doesn't like throwing up – who does? It's the combination of the cold sweat beforehand, that makes him feel like a corpse left in the muggy nights of Summer, the muscle spasms that take hold and control his body, and the lack of oxygen. Vomiting, to put it into words, makes Evan feel like he's been tied up and left to drown.

"Shit," he gasps to the empty room, pushing the bucket as far away from his face as possible. A knock sounds at his door, just as he's settling himself back onto the bed.

"Evan?" Hank's voice seeps through the wood work, soft and small with worry and apprehension. "Can' I come in?"

He re-wraps the blanket tightly around himself before grunting out a barely decipherable, "S'okay," shifting and squirming until he is bent to face the doorway.

"You alright?" His older brother asks, making his way through Evan's bedroom until he is sitting at the foot of the bed. "I could hear you from down stairs."

Evan grins, and he's pretty sure it carries out into his voice. "My, what ears you have."

"It's a big brother thing," Hank chuckles, softly.

He leans in until he can see Evan fully. "Seriously, though, Ev – are you okay?" And Hank _is_ serious, eyes not failing to take in his baby brother's still wrapped form.

Evan pauses, allowing a silence to fill the room for far too long for Hank's liking, in which he contemplates possibly telling...well, not the whole truth, but at least something that doesn't involve lying through his teeth. It only lasts a few moments, though.

"Yeah. Y'know, just kind of hung over – sleepy," Evan mumbles, biting down on his lower lip.

Hank blinks and pulls back. _What a little liar._

"Exactly how much did you have to drink last night? You're not one to puke."

And this is a good question, really, it is, because Hank's right: Evan definitely isn't one to puke from drinking too much. Maybe it's a tolerance his body has built, or maybe it just has something to do with him avoiding all situations that involved vomiting. Regardless, Evan just doesn't get sick like that.

"I don't know," Evan answers honestly, his brow all scrunched into thought. "I don't think it's that I had too much, but more that I had too little."

"What?" Because, well, just what the hell is Evan talking about? As well as blowing chunks, Evan definitely isn't one to be vague. Hank was more than just a tad bit worried.

Evan shifts on the bed, allowing his legs to stretch out, and his feet to just barely touch Hank through the blanket.

"Well, we were really busy yesterday –

"Evan.."

" – and, y'know, I had all those spread sheets to finish and –

"Did...?"

" – You know me, Hank. Once I get started on the paper work, I can't stop, or else I can't remember any of it, a – "

"_Evan!"_

"What, Henry? What?"

Hank pauses, staring his little brother's wide-eyed blues down. Evan just knows where this is going.

"You decided to get 'very drunk' without eating _anything_ beforehand?" And it's not really a question, at least to Evan it's not. No, it's more of a clear-cut statement of Hank's mother-bear concern and disbelief shining through.

"Well... when you put it like that," Evan just trails off, because he knows there's no point in discussing this with his brother. When Hank went on a "worry" tirade, there was just no stopping him.

"Like what?" Hank barks. His brother should know better than this. Christ, even teenagers drank more responsibly than Evan did. "The truth? Evan, you are not an idiot, so I just can't seem to see why you would do something _so _stupid." He scrubs his hands over his face before tucking them against his chest, and begins to list off all of the things that could have happened to him. "Alcohol poisoning – does that sound like fun? Or maybe blacking out? What if..."

Evan's sitting silently, somewhat zoning out. It's like only one-third of his brain is actually listening to Hank's ramblings, searching for the key lines, phrases, or even possibly words, that could bring up the _occurrence. _Theoretically speaking, it seems like it'd be an easier discussion to have if Hank brought it up first.

Last night, it didn't seem like a bad idea; keeping anything and everything to himself. But this morning, after the aches and bruises have had time to set in, Evan's not so sure anymore. He wonders just how long those bite marks will last. How long will he need to wear sweaters and collared shirts to cover the one near his neck? And what about that test? Who the shit is he going to find to run them? If Evan goes to Divya, most likely, she'll end up telling Hank or somehow accidentally doing so. Going to Hamptons Heritage, despite it's walk-in-clinic and snappy tests, is just out of the question. Too many people go there...people who _talk._ He would go out of town for the nearest hospital, but, well, he sold his car to put some money back into HankMed about three weeks ago, and he doesn't feel like the cab fare is worth it.

What if – and this is a big 'what if' – those signs from the LifeTime movies start popping up? Evan doesn't think they will – doesn't think he's ever acted out that extremely due to something traumatic. But what _if _they do? Will Evan notice them before it's too late, or will someone else, most likely Hank, point them out?

And, really, if Evan's being completely honest with himself, he doesn't think this morning's vomit was due to too much alcohol in his system. Oh, no. He can just remember that gasping, muffled, choked scream sound that almost got away.

"And you're not listening to me," Hank mumbles to himself, lifting his flippantly in the air.

"Yep," he lies. "You talk enough for the both of us, though. I just couldn't get a word in edge wise."

"Which was?"

"You're right," and it sounds like there should be a question mark at the end. "It won't happen again."

"It better not," Hank sighs.

"And I will begin making it up to you by actually eating today," Evan says with some light, joke-like smug tone to his voice. "That is, if you're making those famous Henry Made Hungry Time waffles?"

Evan can see his older brother trying to stifle a smile at his deadpan expression. The fact that he could even say "Henry Made Hungry Time" without laughing is a feat in and of itself. "Please, bro – I'm starving. I mean, if you're not busy or anything..." he pouts, knowing Hank won't be able to deny him his brother's delicious breakfast confections.

Hank mumbles something under his breath, and closes his eyes, shaking his head just slightly. "Yeah, okay, fine."

Evan smiles, and it's all happy and tooth-filled, and just something near relaxed. "Yay!"

He watches his older brother rise from the bed, pretending to huff and moan about getting a medical degree for nothing, since he seems to cook for Evan all the time. Hank bends slightly, grabbing the vomit-filled bucket, and holding it far away from his body.

"Shower first," Hank calls over his shoulder, already on his way out. "Don't brush you teeth, Evan. It makes the acid stick in-between your teeth, and I don't think you want the enamel wearing away," he says this pointedly, making sure to reinforce the order through tone.

"Well, what do I do about the puke-taste in my mouth," Evan yells, because, really, if Hank expects him to eat Heaven-sent waffles with that gross as fuck taste, which will ultimately ruin his breakfast, than he expects too much of him.

"Mouthwash," is all Hank replies, already near the bottom of the stairs by the sound of it.

Evan continues to lay there for an undetermined amount of time. Not because he doesn't know for how long he doesn't move, but because it seems like time moves different now, somehow. In his mind's eye, Evan feels like he only went to sleep three seconds ago, and woke up due to one of those crazy, falling dreams that only last for five seconds. Physically, however, is a whole different story. His body feels alive and pumping, warm and sticky, twitchy and like it needs to move, despite it's soreness. Evan thinks that, perhaps it is the tiny, thumping, reminders of pain that makes his body feel so alert, attentive, and ready.

He feels like he could escape an attacker.

_If I wasn't so wasted, I would have,_ Evan nods to himself, climbing out of bed and gathering the first-aid kit once more.

* * *

Evan walks into the kitchen with shaking, twitching, fawn-like trembles that wreak his legs, threatening to take him down with the slightest push. He is guided purely on the twisting in his gut demanding energy resources, and the unbelievably delicious smell of freshly cooked waffles and brewed coffee. In a way, it reminds Evan of mid-term time back at MIT, when all he could was function on auto-pilot; an odd mix of cafeteria bagels, crap coffee, and anything found in vending machines.

There's already a plate waiting for him at the island car, stacked with peanut butter and jelly covered waffles, bacon, and what could make for burnt toast. He notices that there is a very large glass of Sunny D, too, because Evan hates pulp, and Hank refuses to buy orange juice with no pulp.

Balancing on the tips of his toes, Evan reaches into a cupboard, and pulls out a decent-sized coffee mug. It's his favorite; all of it brown, except for the bold, white letters which clearly state 'CANCER SUCKS', and it's near bowl-like shape. If it weren't for the handle, Evan supposes he'd be eating soup out of it.

He swivels on the balls of his feet toward the coffee machine and, carefully – please, don't spill or drop – pours the ink colored liquid to the rim of the cup. Evan's hands shake, but he won't give up the coffee's warmth for anything. So, he stands, immobile except for the slightly visible tremors, just allowing the heat between his hands to soak into the rest of his body.

* * *

A/N:

So, there you go! The second installment of Bite Your Lip and Fake It.

Sorry if the ending seems like it just cut off- we definitely didn't mean for it, too. It seemed like a good place to end this chapter, which is sort of like a filler. It _is _important, though. There were some key phrases and lines that need to be remembered in order to understand where some of this story is going.

Anywho,** THANK YOU**, bunches, loves, to:

**super ario ** for being our first non-anonymous reviewer!  
**Dance Alice Dance** for reviewing.  
**Kits** for reviewing  
**Synner23** for reviewing.  
**JLA24** for reviewing. and  
**LittleSnowPea** for reviewing.

You guys are nifty in every sense of the word.

And, to all those who fav'ed and alerted, Thank YOU guys, as well.

Candy, Love, Lawli-pops, and Corpses,  
ScottIsInBolivia


	3. You

Warnings: Yes, this story includes rape. The authors of this story want it to be known that it is just that: a story, nothing but pure fiction. We also want it to be known that rape is definitely NOT okay, nor is it condoned or even remotely tolerable. If you can't stomach that, then don't read this. It should also be said that this will undoubtedly be a Hank/Evan slash fic. So, if you have issues with homosexuality or incest, than this story just isn't for you, love.

Disclaimer: The authors of this story are in no way, shape, or form, receiving any profit off of it. It is purely for the entertainment, enjoyment, and pleasure of the readers.

* * *

Hank walks back to the kitchen slowly, Divya in tow, after greeting his P.A at the door. They're not speaking, at least, not really. It's a silent conversation, one of eyes, quirked lips, arched brows, flippant hand gestures. And it's hard, keeping up this discussion of mime-actions. A person can't really get across their meaning – emotions or intent – without the help of some sort of voice inflection.

The two medics aren't doing this for some sort of high school reenactment; not for gossip options, or for withholding information. In all honesty, though, really, Divya doesn't have a clue, because Hank's not offering any. As soon as she called to notify him of her arrival, Hank had told her to not make a sound. Divya was about to ask why, but Hank had cut her off with an, "I'm worried."

She feels like she's intruding, like she's a peeping tom or some sort of creeper. From where she and Hank are standing, they can see Evan clearly – eyes closed, head bowed, shaking hands. It's true, Divya likes to be in the "know", and she won't – _can't _– deny it. But this...this is just somehow wrong to her, like, _very _wrong. It's a feeling that sinks down her chest cavity and lands in her gut, hard. Divya's not exactly in tune with her inner "woman warrior", but she's sure the gut feeling has more to do with her womanly – and friendly – instincts, rather than her clinical analysis.

Divya shifts her hip, and rests her weight onto one leg, all the while taking in the CFO's appearance and body language. Evan was shaking, that was plain to see, but it didn't appear as if it were due to the temperature; him being dressed in dark jeans and the purple Garbage Man hoodie he was gifted. He looks..._not frail, but sick. A cold, possibly. _

_Ah_, but no. She clearly remembers Evan asking her if she wanted to join him clubbing last night, and then teasing her about declining. So _maybe _he's hung over. Maybe.

Divya really doubts that, though. Again, the womanly instinct.

Hank turns to Divya, nodding his head rapidly with imploring eyes, asking with a wave of his hand if she sees what he does.

Divya nods, but then her brows scrunch a little in the middle, and she does this weird head tilt, nodding and looking to the far left before she steps back, and quietly makes her way to the living room. Hank is a little confused at first, but he soon realizes the message. _Yes, something is odd, but I'm not going to intrude. Talk to him, now._

Hank knows that Divya is right. He should quit spying on his younger brother – talk to him. It's just, well, how does he begin to even _talk_? People don't normally integrate each others sleeping habits and positions into their normal conversations. Besides, Hank already knows how this might play out. One question is all it will take to make Evan go on the defensive; to deflect any and all attention off of him by changing the subject, and to deny any accusations.

_Evan, buddy, do you know that your hands are trembling?, _and Hank thinks that's just dumb. Of course Evan knows. _There's this thing you do when you're scared, y'know? The whole wrapping yourself in blankets? I haven't seen you do that since we were kids...and last night. _Oh, that would work well.

_Yeah,_ Hank sarcastically scolds himself, _accusing him of being scared, mentioning our childhood, and – _oh! – _admitting that you were watching him in his sleep sounds like a wonderful idea. _

If Hank is being completely honest with himself, he knows how much he is over-concerning himself with Evan's life and his affairs. This is not the first time he has worried to the point of damn near obsession – to the point of forcing Evan to give him the details – and it probably won't be the last. It's just, well, Hank doesn't know how to turn it off.

His "mother bear instincts," as Evan calls them, started to occur just when their father walked out on the two brothers and their mother. It started out in small doses; making sure Evan ate real food – _No, Evan, granola bars do not count as lunch _– double checking both his brother's and his backpack for Evan's inhaler and the spare Hank always kept on his person, and even keeping away the bullies _and_ those who teased Evan by threatening, and sometimes punching, the hell out of them.

Hank's not sure when, exactly, but he thinks his brain shifted into full-time parent mode the moment their mother's barely held on strength left, and all she could do was sleep, because somehow, he knew, he just fucking _knew_ that she wasn't going to be waking up again.

At first, the social worker assigned to the then young Lawson brothers was concerned with Hank's sense of responsibility for the younger boy ; the way he would automatically shift Evan to stand somewhat behind his body whenever an unknown adult would approach them; how, although seeming to somehow talk to his younger brother through a glance, he was the only one to talk with anyone in relation to the foster care agency. In most cases, when dealing with siblings who are placed into the foster care system, it is the social workers' and case managers' goal to keep family together to the best of their abilities. However, when a sibling can be detrimental to the others progress, and in this case, having a power struggle over parental rule, it is sometimes best to place them separately.

To this day, the social worker can still remember the outraged tangent Hank delivered when she explained this to him.

Now, in the present, when Hank thinks over those foster care years, he can understand the worker's reasoning. At the time, he was a twelve year old boy taking on the role of parenting his eight year old brother, refusing to let anyone else assume that role. He understands how frustrating it must have been for the numerous foster parents to have their authority undermined by him, a child. Hank couldn't help it, though. Once he started being the parent, it couldn't be turned off.

It wasn't until Evan became comfortably familiar with college, that Hank tapered the parental role into what it should have been: responsible older brother. And, really, Hank's been good with remembering to keep their relationship strictly sibling-like... at least until recently.

Hank would like to think the reason behind Evan's behavior is caused by drinking too much on an empty stomach and the vomit episode – really, he would. There's just _something_, though, tapping on the back of his brain, giving him the proverbial shove in the right direction. The proper word for that _something_, Hank thinks, would be the one he, oddly enough, learned from his younger brother, who learned it from his old MIT roommate a few years ago. Yes, this situation is hinky.

* * *

Evan can literally feel Hank staring at him, scrutinizing his every shift or movement, and it's fucking nerve wracking. He doesn't know when or for how long, and that sort of freaks Evan out, because where the shit had he been to not notice his older brother openly staring him down? And why won't his body stop moving?

_Stop, damn you_, he tries to order his body.

And if it's not bad enough that his hands seem to be set on doing the whole mild seizure thing, Evan's legs refuse to move. It's not that he's dizzy or weak, no, his legs just won't move. Evan feels like his knees have been turned to termite-mangled wooden blocks – like they're filled with too much rot to rotate properly. _You fucking losers. I knew you'd bail on me when I needed you._ At some point in the day, HankMed's CFO will be calling a repair man... or a neurosurgeon.

It's like his body is trying to purposely screw Evan over. He needs to stop shaking in order to get his brother to finally stop ogling him, because Hank is treading the line for creeper-like-behavior with that. If Evan's upper appendages are just deciding to be dicks today, then fine, but at least allow him the chance to walk away from his brother's gaze and sit behind the counter! Anything but that consuming stare...

Because Evan had decided mere minutes – although, it seemed like hours to him – ago that he would never be telling Hank anything about _anything_. There would be no deep, heart-to-hearts, in which Evan would spill his guts out to his older brother, who would, undoubtedly, hold him through that sick, sob fest, all the while telling Evan that everything was going to be A-fucking-Okay. Blegh! There would be no confessions in Evan's future – no sympathy in Hank's. He had sex; someone decided to fuck Evan after pumping him full of alcohol. Nothing new in the grand scheme of things; guys did that to the women they called "dibbs" on all the time. The CFO is almost 84% positive that he had done that at some point in time. True, it wasn't anywhere near as... rough or – or... And, anyways, Evan knows that he's never continued with it after his partner said no, but he's digressing.

It seemed as if it would do more harm than good – telling. Yeah, Evan would get the whole ordeal off his chest and out of his mind, but it would be placed on other people. Hank would never look at him the same again, Evan's sure of it. All sympathetic glances, long talks, fussing and babying and, "Are you okay? Uncomfortable? You can do it whenever you're ready, just take your time. No judgment." And who the hell wants to deal with that? Because once Hank starts with his mother-bear stuff, he won't be able to stop it, and that means doing it in front of Divya, and possibly other people, who would probably start asking questions... which would lead to explanations. What would Divya do? How would she react upon receiving such knowledge? Evan can picture it already: no more teasing retorts and insults, because poor Evan might not be able to handle it in his fragile state; Divya attempting to strike a serious discussion about feelings and how he could come to her whenever he needed to talk.

Fuck that. No, just...no!

Sure, Evan will get all the tests he needs to, because he'll be damned if he ends up getting some fucking STD off of a one night fuck that could have been prevented. He already has a plan for that, too. But other than that, he won't be doing a damned thing other than lying through his teeth and going about his routine normally. He's going to put his business and marketing degree to good use, because all salesman know how to make it good: you gotta bite your lip and fake it.

So that's what Evan does to get his body into gear. He opens his eyes, blinking as the world comes back into focus, and clears his throat. The acid he coughed up earlier is still managing to make the back of his throat burn and itch, but he's sure he can manage conversation.

Evan clears his throat, barely audible enough for Hank to hear it come back from the metaphysical realm, or wherever the shit he was.

"Bro, I know I'm good looking, but, come on. This is stalker status to a T."

Hank does this weird, full body twitch, like a rebooting, electroshock, and that's all it takes for Evan to gain control of his body again.

"Aah, sorry," Hank mumbles, rubbing his right hand through the hair on the back of his head. "Got lost in my head-space."

Evan nods, more to himself than to Hank, because that is such a completely obvious lie; he might as well just have outright said he was staring – studying. He takes a few steps forward until he reaches the island bar, sitting in the chair with the farthest distance from the doorway and, coincidentally, the farthest distance from his brother. Gulping down a few mouthfuls of his black coffee before setting it down, Evan watches his brother take the seat opposite of him with slightly narrowed eyes.

"Divya here yet?" He asks, unsure if he missed the PA while in his own thoughts.

"Yeah, she's in the living room, reading over Mr. Hartwell's patient file," Hank answers honestly, but carefully, watching for his brother's reaction as he digs into his breakfast.

"And, what? Missing this heaven-sent breakfast buffet?" Dramatically gesturing to the food, Evan continues. "I'm beginning to think The Divs just doesn't like me."

Hank snorts, concern for his brother's notice of his spying flying out of the room. "And that possibility has nothing to do with the nicknames she doesn't like."

"Hank, I'm offended. She loves them."

"If you say so. She just wants to cover all the grounds with Mr. Hartwell, so we aren't going in blind."

"This morning's client?" Evan asks around a mouthful of PB&J covered waffle.

"Yes. The newest member to the Hamptons. You coming with?" Hank idly asks his brother, starting to dine on his own meal.

Evan pauses, and it's noticeable. There's this sudden break in the fluid movement of the fork reaching his mouth, halting, and nearly dropping its contents back onto the plate. Hank chooses not to comment – only raise an eyebrow.

"Umm," Evan blanches, trying to save face by coughing and pouring himself a cup of Sunny D. "Y'know, after drinking and then throwing up this morning, I'm not feeling all that sociable and marketing-y. 'Sides, I have paper work and spread sheets that need to be filled out."

"Wait, am I hearing this correctly?" Hank mock gasps, setting his utensils down in fake astonishment. "Evan R. Lawson _not _interested in receiving some type of payment, _or_ throwing marketing ideas on clients?"

The younger brother replies with a roll of his eyes. "Ha ha." He takes a drink of his Sunny D, pulling a sour face.

"Well, maybe you shouldn't go partying on a school night." Hank offers, returning to his meal.

"What are we, fifteen?"

"Apparently, seeing as how you decide to get trashed before a work day."

"I wasn't trashed; I just had too much to drink."

"Yeah, all on an empty stomach, too."

"It's not like I go out drinking all the time, and besides, I didn't think I'd get that sick."

"That's not the point. You-

"Well what is the point, Henry? Get to it, please, I'm trying to eat."

Hank's mouth sets into a firm line, and that's all the warning Evan has before his brother slams the hand holding his fork onto the table.

"You could have gotten alcohol poisoning! Or gotten mugged, or worse."

And that makes Evan's gut sort of cave in on itself, because it's ironic, really; it is. "Hank, I didn't-" he mumbles sadly, chewing on his lower lip and looking at the table.

"That's right, you didn't. You didn't think before drinking. You didn't think before leaving. You didn't _think_ that you had a responsibility with work today, and you didn't think you had a responsibility for your health." Hank grounds out, tone firm and reprimanding. He knows that he's letting some of his past issues with Evan show in his voice, but at the moment, he can't find it in himself to care. "I'm tired of being the one to have to constantly look out for you."

And then there's silence – pure and unnerving – because... whoa. What Hank just said is ten times more huge than when he told Evan he couldn't trust him, and both Lawsons know it.

Hank blinks. It figures that, once he's said those words, he can't honestly believe he voiced them... and to Evan, of all people. And, _Holy hell, why did I say that? _

Evan's just sitting there, silently chewing on his lower lip, food long forgotten. If there were any doubts in his mind about confiding in his older brother, they've been fucking bombed now. _Uhuh, right. _He sets his fork down quietly, pushing the dishes away and wiping his mouth. Hank's waffles feel like rocks in his gut, and Evan doesn't think he could swallow down anymore.

"Ev," Hank begins, or at least tries to, watching his brother with apprehension as he moves away from the island bar. "Evan, I didn't-

"Go to your appointment, Hank," Evan's voice cut in, cold and like dry ice. He moves methodically, detached and on auto-pilot, scraping the remainder of his food into the trash before gently setting his plate in the sink.

Hank jumps from his seat, walking around the island bar and trying to get a hold of his brother's attention, but Evan's not giving it. No, he's making sure his eyes stay out of Hank's way and that his face remains on lock down as he gathers the rest of his dishes. "Evan, I didn't mean it that way," he placates, hopefully in a manner that expresses just how much he means it, but all he gets is an "Mhm."

In a way, Evan is kind of glad that this rift has transpired between them; it makes keeping quiet and laying low a whole lot more easy than it would have been had they been all brotherly. Hank rarely, if ever, says or does anything to hurt him, but when he does, Evan broods more than any sparkly vampire. It takes so much ass-kissing and making up and just general _time_ for Hank to be forgiven, that's if he doesn't get fed up with Evan's silent treatment first, and if he does, then it turns into a two-way mime-like fight between them. Neither of the brothers cave during this silent war, both too proud to apologize and just get it over with. Forgiveness happens mutually; a shared joke, some funny comment, or even and injury.

However, this fight is no where near as serious as previous ones, and Evan's not looking to rectify it anytime soon. So he remains curt and monotone, giving Hank the 'cold shoulder' and hoping he'll get the hint.

He stiffens when Hank grabs his arm and tries to turn him away from the sink – something that doesn't normally happen during any tiff they have. Hank backs off immediately, deciding to cross his arms over his chest and take a large step away from Evan, giving him his space.

If Hank was worried before, he's panicking now. And, now, it's the doctor in him. Just what the hell is going on?

"Are you okay?" He asks quietly, hoping that his voice comes off as non-threatening. The arms around his chest tighten when his brother stiffens further.

" 'Mfine," Evan mumbles, more than a little fucked, because his plan to make Hank stay away isn't exactly working.

"Bullshit."

"What?" And Evan drops the plate he was rinsing off, spinning on heels to face his older brother, hoping to god that the clinking noise it made covered up the inflection in his voice.

"I said, 'Bullshit'," Hank reiterates, pinning his brother down with a stare.

Evan's hands are, again, shaking, causing the soap suds on his fingertips to splatter around his feet. He feels tired and dead and defeated and fed-up, and, holy shit! His body still hurts. The stinging sensation he got from the soap hitting the bite marks while in the shower are still lingering... and he doesn't even want to get started on the aches and throbs ripping through his lower half.

He wants to start on his paper work, and then go to sleep. He wants Hank to quit staring at him. He wants to go home – to where none of this would have happened. Evan wants his mom...

"What's going on, Evan," and Hank's voice is so demanding – all sense of comfort and warm-fuzzies gone.

Evan chances a glance at his older brother's eyes and mentally flinches, knowing damned well that when they go from a dark shade of hazel to almost black, he's in trouble.

"Nothing," Evan states, this time praying his conviction shows.

"Are you in trouble again? Is HankMed bankrupt?"

"What? No!"

"Did you do something that might upset Boris?"

"No!"

"Well, then what did you do?"

By this point, Hank's shouting, and so is Evan; both Lawson's octaves going higher with each arguing point, neither of their minds registering the fact that Divya is just in the room over. She can hear everything.

"Why the HELL does it have to be that I _did_ something?"

And Hank is so frustrated, speaking in absolution and wild hand gestures. "Because it always _is_ you!"

Evan's not quite sure what to say to that – to any of this stupid argument, really. He knows, though, that if he chooses his words correctly – if he ignores the sting of his brother's words – Evan can make Hank leave him be for who knows how long. He sighs, bringing his right hand up and pinching the bridge of his nose. This is too much for is drained mind and body.

"You don't care either way, _Henry,_" and Evan makes sure to add as much venom to his voice as possible, while simultaneously making it seem as if he couldn't care less. "I'm not your responsibility – I never wanted to be, ever." Once again, he turns his back on Hank, resuming the task of rinsing his dishes. "You have patients, and I have paper work. Get the hell away from me... now," and with that, Evan's done.

Hank's hands drop to his sides, defeated. He knows what Evan's just said, what underlies his real words. His eyes feel like they're burning, and he thinks he's going to cry. The doctor isn't stupid; he knows he was in the wrong for saying he didn't want to have to look out for his brother. But this...this is just... ouch. Unbelievably _ouch._ The corners of Hank's lips keep twitching and jerking, trying to form any sort of reaction, some sort of semblance to an apology, but his throat isn't working. There's a key lodged into the base of his skull, turning and twisting until it's wound itself so tight, his vocal chords get twisted in the mix.

Evan remains silent, listening as his brother walks briskly out of the kitchen to where-the-fuck-ever, and grabs his supplies for the day. He waits until he hears the front door slam open to remove his hands from the sink, dry them off, and pull out his cell phone.

This is weird, even if she is/maybe isn't/used to be Hank's girlfriend, but, well, he needs those tests, and she's the only one Evan can trust to not blab about it to Hank.

* * *

Divya is speechless, at least outwardly. Inside, she's raving. Honestly, how stupid could two men possibly be?

_They're just like children, _Divya thinks, gathering her bag and the files she walked in with before heading toward the door. She's just about to exit the guest house when she hears Evan speaking to someone on the phone... and it sounds quite serious.

"Jill," Evan's voice sounds from the kitchen, barely audible in it's near mumbled tone. "I need you to do me a favor."

There's a brief pause in which Divya considers dismissing the phone call all together, because, really, she frowns upon eaves dropping and gossip... until she hears what Evan says next.

"I need you to run some tests on me."

She stays until she hears confirmations on time and place, and then she's racing to get out of there as fast, and silently, as possible.

This has put Divya in quite the situation; does she tell Hank, question Evan, or leave it alone?

* * *

**A/N: **So sorry it took so long to come out with this chapter! Alyx contracted a rather nasty case of mono that is just ravishing his spleen.

Likes? Dislikes? Happy that there are other characters?

Thanks to all you lovely reviewers, alert-ers, and favorite-ers! You guys just make out weeks. :D

Candy, love, Lawli-pops, and corpses,

ScottIsInBolivia.


	4. Want

Warnings: Yes, this story includes rape. The authors of this story want it to be known that it is just that: a story, nothing but pure fiction. We also want it to be known that rape is definitely NOT okay, nor is it condoned or even remotely tolerable. If you can't stomach that, then don't read this. It should also be said that this will undoubtedly be a Hank/Evan slash fic. So, if you have issues with homosexuality or incest, than this story just isn't for you, love.

Disclaimer: The authors of this story are in no way, shape, or form, receiving any profit off of it. It is purely for the entertainment, enjoyment, and pleasure of the readers.

It's been two days. Somewhere roughly around fifty odd hours, but who's counting? Certainly not Evan. No, he's been busy with HankMed's reports, files, expenses, and those goddamned spreadsheets to fill out. And that's all just from the previous week! The thought of doing enough paperwork to actually catch up to the current day is more than just a bit daunting to Evan. He's been doing nothing but fiddling with computers, getting hand cramps, and smacking the keyboard. Shit, anything, really, to keep his mind off the wait until his appointment with Jill.

It had been more than awkward and uncomfortable while on the phone with Hank's _maybe_ girlfriend; having to explain to her exactly what tests he needed and how it just _had _to be her. Which, now that Evan thinks about it, took a lot of convincing. Jill knew just how much Hank worried over his little brother, so she didn't seem to understand why no one – _god, especially Hank! _– couldn't know about these tests. Yes, the Hamptons were notorious for their gossip and easily accessed knowledge of residents, but it wasn't as if any of them hadn't had a one night stand before. So, sure, Evan forgot to use a condom during one particularly intoxicated night – plenty of people do. Why couldn't Hank, Evan's easily accessible physician brother handle it?

_Yeah, that was a fun one to explain_, Evan nearly smacks himself on the fore-head. Oh, wouldn't you know it; the one person he managed to hook up with – while extremely drunk, mind you – happened to be a former patient of Hank's, who, in fact, ended up toying with the idea of having a relationship with his older brother during their first week in the Hamptons? Yeah, it was a terrible, horrible discovery, but, telle est la vie, right?

Honestly, it was a pretty decent lie that came from Evan's mouth while being put on the spot. True, he winced for putting his brother out there like that, but, well, it had the desired effect; Jill got uncomfortable, and when people get uncomfortable, they tend to drop certain subjects. Well... not before she brought up a "new blonde, panther physician who Hank seems to be stuck on." Her words, not his.

The reasons for this nerve-wracking, pencil chewing, toe-cringing wait? Even in the most basic of infections, it takes a couple days for it to ravish a person's body enough to appear in a screening. That, and, well, Jill was busy with board meetings and creating her clinic and other doctor crap like that. Whatever, the reasons didn't really mean anything to Evan; the waiting did.

With him currently in a silent war with Hank and holing himself in the guest house, Evan's had all the fucking time in the world to think every possible outcome over. What if he has herpes or HIV? What if he doesn't have anything? What if there's a chance the tests come back positive, but with something that could be treated and cured with an antibiotic? Rightfully so, Evan's hoping for the tests to come back negative. Who wouldn't? But there's this underlying fear – this nagging, whisper-like voice echoing his every thought, saying that he will, in fact, have contracted something... something bad. The worst of all STD's, maybe. If that does happen, which Evan hopes to all Christ that it doesn't, he's going to have to tell Hank, right? Logically thinking, it would be best for his brother to become his full-time, personal doctor should the occurrence of some body snatching disease claim him. But that would mean explaining just how he contracted aforementioned body snatching disease, which just doesn't seem like the right thing to do. And, well... shit!

Evan's already going to have to start explaining some things by lying his ass off... again! Yeah, his staying indoors for a near constant three days is starting to raise some unasked questions, but so what? Evan has a phone for a reason; if someone needed him that urgently, they'd call. He's the accountant, not the doctor. Evan doesn't need to be anywhere but in front of these papers, really. But, still! Ever since that little tiff with Hank, he's been declining to see patients and check on them for payment issues, opting to use the phone instead, which is just so unlike him.

The chance of having a sexually transmitted disease and people questioning him on his recent antisocial behavior are both on Evan's Top Five list of things to give a shit about, but, honestly – what he's concerned with the most? The reason for not leaving his house. Just why is that happening? Evan's been a social butterfly since birth; it's not something he has to _try _and do, he's just an unusually sociable person. Whether people like him or not, Evan's chatting them up, regardless of topic or reason. So, really, it is starting to bug him. He thinks it started with the weird twitch his body gave when Hank went to touch him during The Argument, but, well, that doesn't really help to explain much, if anything at all.

It's not that he's scared of people. No way. It's just this thing going on with his gut. Any and every time Evan comes to the decision to walk through the front door, something akin to steel wool starts scraping at his stomach-lining, ripping through and grinding at his insides. Doesn't matter what he's doing, once the steel-wool feeling comes his body freezes – mid-step or hand raised to open the door; it doesn't matter. And it's not a flutter, it doesn't feel like an ache nor a pulsating pain, but more like a flower blooming. It starts in the corner of Evan's stomach, and spreads until it reaches every nerve-ending and orifice in his torso. And it sucks and just..._Ugh!_

Evan thinks his mind is just fucking with him, you know? Making his body act and react oddly to certain situations for shits and giggles. He's not amused. If it were just the steel-wool in his gut bothering him, then Evan wouldn't mind so much; he could get over that, eventually. But there's more things. Little things. Odd occurrences that, during any other time in his life, wouldn't have bothered him nearly as much as they are currently – things that wouldn't have even registered into his head.

Sometimes – and it happens out of nowhere, really – Evan swears he can pick up this smell of sweet, alcoholic drinks and cigarettes. At first, the CFO thought it could have been his shampoo, or even lotion, because well, yeah, he likes to smell good, and he likes sweet things; why not mix the two? And even though that thought didn't – still doesn't – explain the cigarettes, it made sense at the time. A reasonable explanation without over-thinking. After Evan kept smelling it, though, that option and possible explanation just shot down the proverbial shitter.

And it's not like he can really do anything about that particular scent. No amount of Febreeze or Glade or anything, really, could get rid of it; it just made the room heavy with some weird, fresh-linen, flowery smell. It took him a good while, but Evan _did_ manage to open up some not-so-quite-huge windows, and attempt to air the place out, but it was to no avail. It's like that goddamned aroma hung around him as if he _were_ some forty-year old bar, taxi, or car.

Even stranger (as if things couldn't be even more odd) was that those two combined smells didn't really bother him; they were more irritating than anything, really. When Evan's nose would sniff those scents out, they sort of comforted him... in some weird, Freud-like way. It wasn't like the younger Lawson was opposed to drinks; he welcomed them, actually, so that wasn't anything new. But the cigarettes... that was the weird one. He'd spent most of his childhood surrounded by the filmy haze of a parent who liked to chain smoke, which, at the time, didn't bother him. It wasn't until Evan and Hank's dad removed himself from their lives that Evan started to notice the differences of nicotine-caked clothes compared to fresh, aired out rooms. Once his dad left, no one around him smoked; Hank made sure to that, because even the slightest whiff of tobacco sent his stomach roiling. Now, though, with the constant, sporadic moments of phantom smells, Evan sort of welcomes them – craves them, even; not the alcohol, but the cigarettes. He wants to go out and actually buy a pack, maybe not to actually smoke himself, but to at least allow them to burn and fill his room with that smell, because it is actually becoming _that _common.

With Evan's body's refusal to leave the house, though, it's making things quite difficult.

The random smells and cravings for them might be the most odd, but the dreams he's been having are the most irritating. They're not nightmares, at least, he doesn't think they are. Evan can't really remember anything about them when we awakes, but he knows it's something important. He hasn't thrown up since that first morning, but that weird, half gasp, half moan-like, muffled scream _always _happens. He doesn't know why he keeps having to stifle them while barely just on the cusp of full consciousness, but Evan's more than fucking sure that they're what's muffing up his usual eight plus hours of sleep. Sometimes – more like most times, really- Evan wakes to the sound of his own voice, mumbling something or other in that weird, slurred speech that comes with waking up.

It's fucked up. It's creepy. It's driving Evan nuts and making him lose sleep. Yeah, he's been known to talk in his sleep; Hank, Divya, and even some of the few people he's had one-night stands with have said so, but they all said that it was incoherent, probably pointless babbling.

These don't seem like his usual sleep-talks, though. They seem important, kind of like it's something Evan _should_ be writing down to remember, but forgets to, regardless. He's almost tempted to audibly record himself while sleeping. Almost.

The feel of vibrations coming from his pocket pulls Evan out of his head-space. He blinks, sluggishly digging through the pockets of his sweat shorts to find the source of the rumbling.

_Ahh, of course, it's the celly._

Evan feels slow and lethargic; caught between hyperactive thoughts and too little sleep, so it takes him a few moments to open his cell phone and figure out why it's deciding to have a seizure.

It reads that he has "2 New Message," and would like to know if he wants to "Read" them now or "Dismiss" until later. Just as he's about to open the messages, Evan's phone begins to vibrate again, indicating that he has an incoming call.

"Evan R. Lawson, CFO of HankMed. How can I make you feel better today?" Evan speaks into the phone without pause, having those lines sort of ingrained into his memory.

"..Right. Evan?" A female voice sounds through the speaker, light and slightly accented with an Indian undertone.

"Why, Divs, I knew you secretly loved the sound of my voice," Evan's voice rang with mock astonishment, all teasing grins and friendly banter.

Divya had somewhat anticipated this reaction from the CFO given his normal behavior, and was quick to snap back with a retort. "Why, Evan, did you know that it is, in fact, a medical ailment to not be able to tell the difference between fantasy and reality?"

Evan crossed his left arm over his chest, reclining into the chair he had been sitting in for hours, trying to keep his snickers silent. "Well, ouch! You wound me, Divya."

He could practically see the grin on the PA's face when she replied with, "Oh, walk it off, you baby."

"I know you love me and all, but I really hate terms of endearment and pet names."

"Evan, sometimes I really wonder what world you live in, and what frequency you function on."

Evan let out a small laugh that time. "Again; ouch."

"As much as I'm enjoying this conversation," Divya began with full sarcasm, which was unneeded, really, because Evan _knew_ she did enjoy their banter, "I called for reasons outside of the pointless variety."

"Oh? Do tell, please."

"Well," and Divya paused, an awkward, half-breath. She wasn't expecting to get this far. "I haven't seen you in a while. Care for a late lunch?"

* * *

**A/N: **Ahh sooo sorry this took so long, loves. And we also apologize for the size of it.

Alyx had a bit of a scare with infection and fevers, and he's just finally begun to recover.

Rest assured that all of our stories are currently being written for the next few chapters, and that updates will be occurring regularly now.


End file.
